Jenny's cousin White wrote her a long letter, saying he had no say at home and felt sorry for her, but he couldn't change his parents' nature. The only thing he could do was give her twenty dollars to help her settle into her new job. He said the money wouldn't affect his life, so she could accept it with peace of mind. White also wrote that his parents now wanted to see her every day to explain themselves. Because they realized Jenny was no longer the same person, and if she could become a typist in the future, it would be a proud achievement. White told Jenny not to bother with them from now on.
Under the dim lamplight, Jenny folded White's letter and put it into a locked wooden cabinet. Along with her wallet, which still had twenty or thirty dollars left, combined with this money, they formed a stack that felt a bit worn at the edges. Jenny wrote a reply to her cousin, closed the box, and locked it. Turning her head, she saw Polly, who was already asleep. Polly had her emotions written all over her face and had refused to talk to Jenny ever since coming upstairs. Jenny didn't mind and went to bed early.
Early one morning two days later, Jenny deliberately woke up half an hour early. She went downstairs to the bakery and bought two pounds of filled bread rolls and lemon sugar crumble cookies for her roommates. In exchange, Leni helped her curl her hair, and Denise helped her dress. Jenny wanted her appearance to show at a glance that she was an experienced worker, not a newcomer. The quickest way to achieve results was to change her external demeanor. For the past two days, she had kept asking Leni and Denise for help and finally found her most suitable style. Leni gave Jenny lipstick and face cream, took her to South Street to choose a bottle of citrus-scented perfume, and helped her find the most flattering hairstyle. Denise loved beautiful clothes; her wardrobe was stuffed full in the dormitory. She offered to lend Jenny a white blouse and a simple wool skirt. That dark wool skirt was quite old, with a tight fit. Silver buttons ran from the collar all the way to the hem. From the front, it looked smooth and neat, without any adornment. The back had a pleated design. When worn, from the side, it formed an hourglass shape. When Jenny put it on, it fit perfectly in every place, as if it weren't borrowed. Denise said the last time she could wear that skirt was four years ago, but now, time was like a knife that kills a pig. Then she fastened a silver cross necklace around Jenny's neck as an accessory. Denise said she was an atheist in New York but would reclaim her faith when returning to her hometown in Georgia. Jenny was very satisfied. She gave them an affectionate kiss on the cheek and then hurried to the ground floor of the building.
In the early morning, snowflakes fell slanting, thick and heavy. The air in the hall was stale but not too cold. Monique handed Jenny a cup of freshly brewed black tea. As the bell rang, the two of them opened the window panels together. Jenny had learned enough lessons. She could now glance at a story and, within thirty seconds, figure out how to reject it. Her tone was firm, her attitude absolute, as if she were guarding Dawling's golden brand with her life, like protecting God himself—making people have to compromise with her insistence.
"Sir, if this story stays as it is, and I take it to the editor, he'll kick me out. Don't make things difficult for me, okay? If you want to hear my opinions and insights, I can answer you, so you can revise it more pointedly."
Across from Jenny, a young man wrapped in a black wool scarf glared at her angrily. Rejected repeatedly, Sean felt deeply humiliated. He always believed his writing was excellent and atmospheric, and that revision was an insult to the story. He grabbed the manuscript on the table, about to leave. Jenny leisurely picked up her teacup, took a sip, borrowed a cube of sugar from Monique next door, dropped it in, and stirred the liquid with a small spoon. She whispered to Monique. "Do I imitate you well?" Monique hunched over and nodded. Jenny straightened up, turned around, and faced the window. "Well then, good riddance. There's still a long line of people waiting behind you." She glanced at him with a look that seemed to see right through him. Deep down, Jenny wasn't sure if he really would leave, but she played the tug-of-war by instinct.
This gentleman was named Sean, an obscure playwright who hung around the backstage of third-rate Broadway theaters and the K Club year-round. This was already his second day coming to submit; Jenny had rejected him once already. The people in line behind urged Sean to leave quickly. Sean turned around and barked at them a few times. Seeing that Jenny didn't care at all, he finally put down the manuscript, plopped down on a stool behind the counter, and bowed his head to Jenny. "What do you think is wrong with my story? You'd better explain clearly, or I won't leave here today." Jenny slapped her hand down on the manuscript and took it. "Mr. Sean, you came to submit, not to act like a jilted lover. Otherwise, I won't tell the truth." Faced with Jenny, Sean could only shut his mouth helplessly.
Actually, Jenny thought highly of the story in Sean's hands, but its flaws were as glaring as its strengths. Most third-rate creators from the K Club made this mistake. Sean's story was about a lovely American woman who meets a nobleman in Europe. They quickly fall in love, marry, and the American girl swiftly escapes her poor class to become a wealthy wife. After marriage, the girl moves into the nobleman's estate. Then she discovers that the nobleman had a former wife. The servants all miss that former wife deeply, and even the nobleman himself misses her. This causes the girl great pain, and she ends up leading a miserable life. The story creates an emotional atmosphere; Sean's descriptions are very detailed and make for a smooth read. But the story avoids the sharpest conflicts at every turn, or rather, it never creates them. You only see a sorrowful atmosphere, but the main thread isn't distilled.
Jenny took a deep breath and said to Sean, "I guess you're broke now. Can you pay next week's rent? If not, listen to me: turn it into a mystery about the cause of the former wife's death. I guarantee this story will land in an editor's hands, and even get published. The payment will cover a few months' rent, no problem. If you don't revise, you won't get a cent from it. Sean, think about it: the male lead loves his former wife so much, he's full of nostalgia. But if he truly loved her, shouldn't she be irreplaceable? How could he look for a substitute for his wife? You haven't fully written through the logic of the male lead's behavior. Maybe this is a place where you can use subtle implication to great effect. What if he killed her?" As he listened, Sean's brow furrowed tighter. Faced with Jenny's certainty, he leaned back completely in his chair. He pressed his lips together, as if the scattered inspiration in his mind had suddenly taken shape. He had thought of this plot before but hadn't realized its importance. Sean nodded at Jenny, grudgingly forgiving her rudeness. "I'll go revise it. I'll find you in three days at most."
The same treatment was applied to the dozen or so authors after Sean. Jenny filtered out two-thirds, leaving six short stories. At the stroke of twelve, it was closing time for the ground floor counter. Jenny and Monique shut the counter panels in unison. Jenny had fully adapted to counter work. She walked through the employee corridor with her head high and chest out, and the two entered the hydraulic elevator side by side.
These two days, the proofs for the first issue of Century Weekly after its revival had been completed. After the managing editor and editor-in-chief reviewed them, they would go to print. Jenny's mood also lightened. "I really wonder which two people will end up winning Mr. Alpha's favor and get the bylines," Monique casually remarked about the hottest topic in the office. She yawned. Seeing that she didn't seem interested, Jenny asked, "You don't want a byline?" "Of course not," Monique said, wiping the corner of her eye. In the elevator car, there were only the two of them and an operator, so Monique spoke freely. "My only purpose in jumping to Dawling was to find a husband with an annual salary of a thousand dollars and settle down. With the byline dangling out front, everyone's breaking their necks. Don't I have self-awareness? If I wanted to enjoy the benefits it brings, I might as well just marry the person who gets the byline." Jenny felt Monique wasn't wrong; everyone had their own way of solving problems. "So, do you have a target?" she asked. Monique nodded and ran through a comment on every male colleague in the office. Excluding the married ones, those too young or too old, and those ugly and sleazy, Monique was left with only two targets. "Frank may be handsome, but I found out yesterday that his father is a professor at Columbia University, and his mother comes from a very traditional family. I don't want to suffer torment and contempt after marriage. Ronald looks like he also meets my standards, but I haven't been able to find out his background. No one in the whole company knows his details. Isn't that strange?" "It really is strange," Jenny said. The two chatted and laughed all the way. Even the young elevator operator couldn't stand the frivolity of New York girls of the new era and blushed.
When the two arrived at the Weekly Editorial Department, they entered the office and found the atmosphere odd. In particular, Ronald and Cowens were standing dejectedly inside Mr. Alpha's office. The office door was open, and Mr. Alpha's helpless voice came out, telling them to think of another way. Jenny sat down behind her desk, carrying her manuscripts, directly facing Polly, who had been unwilling to talk to her for two days. But now Polly, with an eager expression, revealed a piece of news to Jenny. "Two days ago, Mr. Burshuta returned to New York. Mr. Alpha got a tip that this gentleman had prepared an outline of a novel while in Europe and came back to New York to complete it. It's said that the copyright hasn't been signed yet. Just this morning, after discussing it with Mr. Eliot, Mr. Alpha sent Ronald and Cowens to Mr. Burshuta's residence to sound him out. Mr. Burshuta is a famous author, very popular right now. He's worth hundreds of thousands of dollars, has a mansion in New York and a horde of servants, and appears at the banquets of dignitaries every day. If his novel could be signed by Century Weekly, it would absolutely attract the most discussion."
"When Ronald and Cowens visited the author's mansion this morning, they had a hard time just seeing the butler. They had hoped to grease the wheels and create some favorable conditions for Mr. Alpha to personally visit. But the butler was very difficult—those two young men couldn't even hand over the gifts and bribes. If they could really get through, the byline would definitely be theirs. But such good fortune never falls from the sky." Polly snorted. She knew that not everyone in the office was more capable than her. Jenny lowered her head to organize the documents on her desk, started the typewriter, and prepared to proofread. Her expression was calm, but inside she had a premonition: this might be an opportunity.